B
BendyWendy
Guest
Once my fiancee had discovered how readily I responded to his masturbating me, he took pleasure in doing it when he could - which was not that often, as by then I had moved to London as a trainee student nurse and was living in the nurses’ home where men were not allowed, and was working long and unsocial hours that rarely coincided with his being able to visit anyway. So that overtly sexual activity was confined to walks in London parks, or in the woods or the country when we could both get away.
Even though I was utterly unable to stop him doing it - well, really I didn’t even want him to stop - he respected my limits and never pushed further: we remained chaste, I remained the almost-virgin I had been when we met. It is interesting, looking back, how well he knew me and how much he respected me, while at the same time mericlessly exploiting how ‘easy’ I was when it came to his .. well, to his ‘finger-fucking’ of me. That, he pushed quite far: once as far as doing it to me as we sat side by side in a booth at a little country tea room - his hand under my skirt, his finger inside me, discreetly hidden by the high wooden table, to the extent that I was unable to answer the waitress when she asked what I would like, because my mind was elsewehere and I could not form coherent words. He, on the other hand, waited cooly - and cruelly, one might say, while I opened and closed my mouth like a landed fish while he wriggled his finger inside me - and then answered on my behalf, politely, casually, without the slightest hesitation, so that I am sure the waitress found me deeply odd and suspicious but he charming and pleasant.
I am ashamed to say that it never occurred to me to return the favour. I have said before that I think I am quite naive: I think one might say that it is more than that - I lack an easy facility with social skills, with reading situations, that is exacerbated by a too intense focus that can blind me to what is obvious to others, socially. So I actually never thought about his needs: I sated mine - or he did, making me cum - but never thought of doing the same for him. I don’t think I am qute so stupid now, but I was young, inexperienced, brought up in a loving but very sexually restrained environment so perhaps I may be excused for what was really utter selfishness. That changed when we finally found ourselves alone in privacy.. We had gone to stay with his grandfather, who was too infirm to climb the stairs. We slept in separate bedrooms: but in the morning I crept in to his room and then into his bed. I wore a nightdress and he pyjamas - fluffy wyncyette was all the fashion then - hilarious now to think of young men wearing old-man pyjamas but that was the times.
I cuddled up to him and could not help feeling his very hard erection. I did not know what to do with it (bearing in mind that actual sex was out of the question), so I sort of laid my hand on it, feeling its slow pulsing throb. After a while he said, in a sort of strangled gasp: “pump your hand on it” and I did - I slipped his pyjama bottoms down and took his cock in my hand, and started a pumping action. It was fascinating - addictive: the cock was alive, it moved and twitched and pulsed and throbbed to my touch. I couldn’t stop watching it, and experimenting - a light stroking, one finger; two fingers lightly curled around its girth, pumping; a soft touch of one finger under the balls - each elicited a new and to me utterly fascinating response. When I pumped it, his whole body shook - if I kept it up he snaked, a naked sinuous movement that looked magnificent - amazing, erotic beyond belief. I felt totally in control - it was like the converse of the control he had over me when he finger-fucked me - I could do what I liked, and his body would respond: I felt powerful, like some kind of goddess of sex.
I kept doing it, and the creamy cum erupted, in a pumping fountain stream that spattered high up on his chest but left wet sticky cum all over my hand. It was amazing. And like him with finger-fucking me, once I had discovered maturbating his cock, I did it every chance that arose.
Even though I was utterly unable to stop him doing it - well, really I didn’t even want him to stop - he respected my limits and never pushed further: we remained chaste, I remained the almost-virgin I had been when we met. It is interesting, looking back, how well he knew me and how much he respected me, while at the same time mericlessly exploiting how ‘easy’ I was when it came to his .. well, to his ‘finger-fucking’ of me. That, he pushed quite far: once as far as doing it to me as we sat side by side in a booth at a little country tea room - his hand under my skirt, his finger inside me, discreetly hidden by the high wooden table, to the extent that I was unable to answer the waitress when she asked what I would like, because my mind was elsewehere and I could not form coherent words. He, on the other hand, waited cooly - and cruelly, one might say, while I opened and closed my mouth like a landed fish while he wriggled his finger inside me - and then answered on my behalf, politely, casually, without the slightest hesitation, so that I am sure the waitress found me deeply odd and suspicious but he charming and pleasant.
I am ashamed to say that it never occurred to me to return the favour. I have said before that I think I am quite naive: I think one might say that it is more than that - I lack an easy facility with social skills, with reading situations, that is exacerbated by a too intense focus that can blind me to what is obvious to others, socially. So I actually never thought about his needs: I sated mine - or he did, making me cum - but never thought of doing the same for him. I don’t think I am qute so stupid now, but I was young, inexperienced, brought up in a loving but very sexually restrained environment so perhaps I may be excused for what was really utter selfishness. That changed when we finally found ourselves alone in privacy.. We had gone to stay with his grandfather, who was too infirm to climb the stairs. We slept in separate bedrooms: but in the morning I crept in to his room and then into his bed. I wore a nightdress and he pyjamas - fluffy wyncyette was all the fashion then - hilarious now to think of young men wearing old-man pyjamas but that was the times.
I cuddled up to him and could not help feeling his very hard erection. I did not know what to do with it (bearing in mind that actual sex was out of the question), so I sort of laid my hand on it, feeling its slow pulsing throb. After a while he said, in a sort of strangled gasp: “pump your hand on it” and I did - I slipped his pyjama bottoms down and took his cock in my hand, and started a pumping action. It was fascinating - addictive: the cock was alive, it moved and twitched and pulsed and throbbed to my touch. I couldn’t stop watching it, and experimenting - a light stroking, one finger; two fingers lightly curled around its girth, pumping; a soft touch of one finger under the balls - each elicited a new and to me utterly fascinating response. When I pumped it, his whole body shook - if I kept it up he snaked, a naked sinuous movement that looked magnificent - amazing, erotic beyond belief. I felt totally in control - it was like the converse of the control he had over me when he finger-fucked me - I could do what I liked, and his body would respond: I felt powerful, like some kind of goddess of sex.
I kept doing it, and the creamy cum erupted, in a pumping fountain stream that spattered high up on his chest but left wet sticky cum all over my hand. It was amazing. And like him with finger-fucking me, once I had discovered maturbating his cock, I did it every chance that arose.
